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jby Clyde ^lison Mann 




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TtlE BlyUE SKT PRESS 
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THt Llbf;Af<Y OF 
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Twi-' Copies Received 


JAN 5 1903 


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^ ■ ;COPY B. 



Copyright I go 2 by 
Clyde A. Mann 



CONTENTS 

To A Canary 13 

The Old Settlers* Picnic i 5 

My Red Bird 18 

Baby's First Birthday 19 

A Question 20 

The Westbound Train 21 

When the Thresher Stops 22 

The Washin' on the Line 24 

Spring Bonfires 26 

My Companion 28 

Hope 30 

When Beatrice Plays 31 

A Lament 32 

To A New Clock 33 

Sehnsucht 34 

To A Golf Stick 37 

A Gust OF Winter 39 



TO MY WIFE 



\ 



TO A CANARY 

Don Orsino, sing to Jane 

Of the sunshine, of the rain 

Of the April natal day, 

Of her childhood, and its play ; 

Of the evening lullaby es 

When to sleep, with happy sighs. 

She was sung. Bring to Jane 

Her first birthdays back again. 

Don Orsino, sing to Jane 
Of the sunny days and rain 
In the years that later came ; 
Sing of dancing tongues of flame, 
In a circle at the hearth 
And the moving shadows swarth ; 
Of the birthday cheer sing on, 
Sing and sing, oh sweet voiced Don ! 



13 



Don Orsino, sing away 
Notes of every golden day 
When the sun was shining high 
From a cloudless, springtime sky 
On my sweetheart Jane, and me 
In an April ecstacy. 
Sing Orsino, sing with zest, 
Of the maid that I loved best ! 

Don Orsino, sing it sweet. 

Of a happiness replete ; 

Trill your softest for the ear 

Of the wondering baby near; 

Sing of brooks and dancing foam 

In your sun-drenched forest home — 

Baby listens, you must sing 

That the coming years will bring 

More of sunny days than rain — 

Don Orsino, sing to Jane ! 



14 



THE OLD SETTLERS' PICNIC 

The dust is on the ragweed, the cricket 

singin' shrill, 
There are ragged holes a-showin' in the 

sunflower's yellow frill, 
Katydids give warnin' that the summer 's 

soon to end. 
All out-doors is hummin' and its hum- 

min's seem to blend ; 
The solar system's blazin' its driest 

August heat. 
An' its time for us old settlers and 

pioneers to meet ; 
The barns are left to pigeons, the thrash- 
er's roar is still. 
For dust is on the ragweed, an' the 

cricket singin' shrill ! 

When speeches in the shady grove have 
ended one by one, 

When reports of th' committees an* elec- 
tions are all done, 

15 



With the teedlein' of the merry-go- 
round a-pipin' through it all 

An' the yellin' of the "weinie" man ; 
**peanuts an' popcorn" call, 

We *re hungrier than coyotes, an' the 
cake that mother made 

Tastes delicious after sandwiches an' 
swigs o' lemonade ; 

The band '11 play, there 's dancing, a 
race '11 then be run — 

But pioneers at picnics have a heartache 
with their fun. 

I watch the balloon ascension, an' I try 
to ring a cane, 

I look the racin' horses over from their 
withers to their mane, 

I bite a straw, stand gassin' about politics 
an' crops, 

Argy 'bout ^'imperialism" with demo- 
crats and pops. 



i6 



But there 's a solemn feelin' — that 
memorial report 

Brings up faces, not forgotten, that used 
to watch the sport. 

An' — I'm just a-sneezin' — I get a lone- 
some thrill 

When the dust is on the ragweed, and 
the cricket singin' shrill ! 



17 



MY RED BIRD 

Out in the woods, in mossy nooks 
The redbird sings of flickering brooks 
That glide through glades, where up- 
ward looks 
The fern through rifts to the wheeling 

rooks — 
Oh ! the redbird's notes are sweet. 

Out in the woods, through grassy glens 
My baby calls to the echo dens, 
And laughs aloud in leafy lairs 
As loitering, she onward fares, 
And my redbird's laugh is sweet. 

Snug in our nest, yes, thine and mine, 
Our redbird sleeps, our babe, yes thine. 
And drifts through dreams a-glint, 

a-shine 
With radiant love, oh love divine — 
Ah ! my redbird babe, sleep sweet ! 



i8 



BABY'S FIRST BIRTHDAY 

Out of the land of age-by-months, 

To the land of one-year-old, 

My baby drifts all cosily 

As roses of June unfold. 

And drowsy drone of summer's song, 

Of bees a-loitering by, 

Of bird and breeze and tree top leaf, 

Sing her birthday lullaby. 

Out of a land of eat-and-sleep 
To a realm of creep-around. 
My baby slips so sleepily 
In a world all lullabye sound. 
Does she sigh for the world she left 

behind, 
As she wearily snuggles to rest. 
When the one red taper has sputtered out 
And the rose has Teft the west ? 



19 



A QUESTION 

Oh is it true, as it seems to be. 

The sob in my baby's cry 

Is the sob unheard, with the tear unseen 

Of her mother's last goodbye ? 

Oh, is it real, as it seems to be. 
The anguish her mother bore 
Is aching yet in my baby's heart, 
Or is that pain no more ? 

Oh baby dear, were it really true. 
Were heartache yours, a sigh. 
The God who ordered thus would rule 
That buds, ere blooms, must die. 



20 



THE WEST-BOUND TRAIN 

A sod house on the broad brown miles, 
Our home — on a prairie farm — 
Scant pleasure there the heart beguiles 
Till the night train's shrill alarm. 

Afar looms smoke o'er snow-flecked 

grass — 
Lights gleam from crowded cars — 
A glimpse of life as train sounds pass, 
Then the sod house — and the stars. 

Thoughts fly fast to the old home place, 
To a face through a lamp-lit pane, 
Far east through dusk whence flashed 

the race 
Of the west-bound, roaring train. 

From our cabin to the stars we turn, 
Fade drudgery and pain. 
The lights of hope do freshly burn 
New kindled by a train. 

21 



WHEN THE THRESHER STOPS 

The sun sinks to the prairie, its blazing 
colors spread, 

The yellow straw turns ruddy from the 
radiance overhead. 

Not a word is spoken but the bundles, 
grimly fed. 

Make of golden dust a halo, where spin- 
ning grain is sped ; 

Shadows stretch far over stubble, then 
the stubble turns to brown 

And the thresher's roaring stops — when 
the August sun is down. 

A clatter of a windmill ; puff of breezes, 

sweet 
With fragrant harvest odor from yon 

miles of new-cut wheat. 



24 



Sprawled on grassy door-yard, I hear the 

big trees purr, 
See all the stars come blinking — just 

don't want to stir; 
Forget the ache of threshing, as Care 

forgets to frown. 
Want to lie here just a-dreaming, as the 

August night comes down. 



23 



THE WASHIN' ON THE LINE 

There wus somethin' real uncanny in its 
antics in the wind, 

Flannels all a-writhin', as though tor- 
tured, havin' sinned; 

White sheets flutterin' mildly, with eerie 
flop an' sway 

Thet were even quite unsettlin' at the 
middle of the day ! 

But when the dusk of ev'nin' came steal- 
in' over things 

Those empty arms began to make some 
twitchy sort o' flings. 

Seemed as if they beckoned at you with 
direful, sped:ral sign. 

Used to fairly scare me, the washin' on 
the line ! 

Now I have a longin' for that sight of 

boyhood days 
And for the sudsy odors thet washdays 

alius raise ; 
24 



I want to see familiar duds a-dryin' in 
the air — 

Blouses, nightshirts, all the things we 
fellows used to wear, 

And frocks o' checked blue gingham my 
little sisters wore 

With shawls pinned on behind a-trailin* 
on the floor ; 

I'm lonesome fur the playmates of child- 
hood days of mine, 

When swung at midday, years ago, the 
washin' on the line. 



25 



SPRING BONFIRES 

Stare up at the treetops, robins chirrup- 
ing there; 

Break the twigs of maples ; sap and some 
to spare ; 

Look for buds and grass-blades, sit bask- 
ing in the shine 

Of moonlight all delicious, sun as mel- 
low as old wine — 

World is all a-singing, glad on foot and 
wing. 

And the sweetest sign of the world's re- 
vival is the bonfires every spring. 

Oh, the fragrance of the blazes when the 

spring wakes up the world 
With magic in the smoke haze, as from 

wizard's urn it curled, 
Awakens childhood day-dreams, all the 

joys of joyous youth. 
Loved faces peer in memory from garden 

hats uncouth 
26 



As the figure of the father moves again 
with sturdy swing 

Raking for the bonfire of a dear and by- 
gone spring. 



27 



MY COMPANION 

With my shadow for comrade I walked 

in the morn ; 
The sun shimmered frost on stalks of the 

corn 
And cock crowed to cock far clarion 

glee — 
But silent the comrade that Death left 

for me. 

With my shadow I walked at radiant 

noon, 
The world was all drowsy with Autumn's 

low croon, 
And calls of young mothers to children 

at play 
Made my comrade's drear silence more 

heavily weigh. 



28 



With my shadow I walked when near 
was the dusk, 

Bright sun had thawed stubbles, whose 
incense of musk 

Conjured pidures for me of a hope- 
lighted past 

That faded as vanished my shadow, at 
last. 

My shadow my comrade forever must be. 
Walking and working — fast wedded are 

we 
While springs turn to summers, while 

autumns grow bleak, 
Till, winters all ending, my sweetheart 

shall speak. 



29 



HOPE 

There is no night ; the sun may sink 

from sight 
And end resplendent day, but ere its final 

ray 
Hath faded quite there gleams above, 

less bright, 
The even's stars, to stay till dawn doth 

show its grey 
Of a new and different day. 

There is no death ; the final mortal 

breath. 
And then behold ! New light to those 

who hold that moment blight. 
New courage in the dread hour told to 

wait, to work, to fight. ' 
The heart is new-cast in bereavement's 

rigid mold. 
For a world both grey and cold. 



30 



WHEN BEATRICE PLAYS 

The lilt and laugh of a light refrain 
Flung by from flying fingers — 
Flecks of sun in flow'ry lane 
Where summer ev'ning lingers, 
Thrushes thrills of melodies. 
Morns of glittering dew — 
Dancing dust of harmonies 
When Beatrice plays to you. 

Largo lull, then a low lament 
Brave in major phrasing, 
Sorrows' song so simply blent 
With Fate's and Fortune's praising 
Voiced is dark of forest dense 
Andserenest rift of blue; 
Bass despair to hope intense. 
When Beatrice plays to you. 

Rattle and rush and roar of rain. 
Crescendo notes in a minor ; 
Estatic eddies of swift refrain 
Flood fuller and free and finer — - 
31 



Call you out from a catacombed coast 
To be lulled on the rippling blue, 
To dream the dreams you like the 

most — 
While Beatrice plays to you. 



A LAMENT 

Death, who com'st to some like sleep 
That doth o'er some so gently creep 
None may morn the memory — 
Why may this not always be ? 

Why comest ever in horrid guise 
To close so roughly weary eyes ? 
When victor, oh vaunt not power to us 
Why, if God-sent, comest thus ? 



3^ 



TO A NEW CLOCK 

Good clock, new upon the wall. 
Astir with life, be kindly as you count 

the hours; 
A month, a year, Spring, Summer, Fall, 
And Winter, in living the life that 's ours. 
Give no heed when death is yearned 
For need there is to live and strive, but 

tune thy voice 
To gladdest note when death is earned 
And we with our loves rejoice. 



33 

L.cFO. 



SEHNSUCHT 

Ah, there was a maid whose dancing eyes 
Look back to me neath summer skies, 
Blue arched o'er hillside daisies : 
Midst fields of white all drenched with 

sun 
Her eyes, aglow with love just won. 
Laughed back at lover's phrases. 
Then sung the wind that swept her hair 
Of rapture of that future fair 
Of sanguine love's fond dreaming ; 
There blossoms billowed, gold and 

white, 
Bright butterflies winged a care-free 

flight — 
As gay as young life's seeming ! 

Ah, my sweet bride ! welcoming word 
And whispered love my wonder stirred 
And love took graver rhythm ; 



34 



Her eyes had depths all new to me — 
That I as lover could not see — 
Starlight and dew were i' them. 
Warm lights shone at dusk from home 
Their ruddy cheer through storm-blown 

foam, 
In calm serene were glowing. 
But storm or calm, one brave sweet voice 
Through ev'ry day acclaimed my 

choice — 
In sun our lives were flowing. 

But came a day, a mother wept — 
She could not hold her babe that slept — 
Dragged weeks and months so grimly ! 
Across our lives the shadow fell 
Of pain I could not share nor tell. 
Though I knew her love not dimly. 
There is a mound neath giant elms ; 
Below, a glen of sun-sought realms 



3S 



Where ferns and flowers pierce leafy 

mould 
When life succeeds to death and cold ; 
Oh, Death, she loved these ferns, loved 

life. 
Thou canst not claim my sweetheart- 
wife! 
Oh, maiden loved in summer sun 
And wooed midst sylvan glory. 
Whose life and mine were briefly one, 
The grave ends not the story : 
Though now, akin to sorrow's horde 
I grieve at mourners' sombre pall. 
In sifting rays of hope is stored 
The broader human love, — for all ! 



36 



TO A GOLF STICK 

Made of hick'ry, iron heeled, 
Friend indeed in midst of field, 
Midiron yclept, stalwart stock 
Hear me now, a hummer knock. 
Put me in in barely two — 
High and far, direction true ! 

When with fav'rite middle I 
Tramp the upland, blue the sky. 
Mellow sunshine over all 
Where the bobolinkums' call. 
Brings to mind the freshest breeze 
When thou drovest ball from upland 
tees. 

Sturdy golf stick, life is fair 
When I swing thee in country air, 
Loft the sphere from bunker lie, 
Speed it where the hole flags fly — 
Approaching shot with two to spare, 
Then, oh then, the world is fair ! 

37 



With clumsy topping, grubbing stroke, 
Often thou my heart hast broke, 
Won and lost we have together, 
Foursome played in grewsome weather, 
■Dear thou art at times of winning, 
Foozle thou, and thou go'st spinning ! 

Mashie, driver, brassie, all 
Have small skill in back-spin fall; 
Lofter light and heavy one too 
Have no charm with work to do ; 
Skill and speed, ye midiron pet, 
Show the rubber, shine or wet ! 

Apt and sturdy, when you're whirled 
What is needed show the world ; 
Deftly done tliy hammer saokc, 
Like heart of roses, arm of oak. 
Learn from thee can all of men, 
But is that why I love thee, then ? 



38 



A GUST OF WINTER 

Ho, ho, ho, heigho ! 
Lustily, gustily the rough blasts blow. 
Busily, dizzily the flakes whirl by, 
Drifting and sifting neath a storm-night 

sky; 
Oh Wind, stop and tell me why. 
Why not laugh — so woefully sigh ? 
The wind stormed on, a life went by; 
Years answered that question, his ques- 
tion, "why" ? 



39 



Here ends CLOVER ^ THISTLE 

as written by Clyde Alison Mann. Made 
into this, book by Langworthy & Stevens, at 
The Blue Sky Press, 47 3 ^ Kenwood Ave- 
nue, Chicago, in November, ig02. Of this 
edition one hundred and fifty copies have 
been printed, of which this is number /^y 



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